


Getting to Know You

by fishpoets



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Relationships, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Relationship, hanzo thinks too dang much, mccree plays guitar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:04:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7989424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He came to Overwatch to find redemption. He didn't expect to find friends, or to find a family. He certainly didn't expect to fall in love.</p><p>A story of the things Hanzo learns about Jesse McCree, and the ways he lets himself be known in return.</p><p>[Currently on hiatus but will definitely be finished at some point!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where have all the cowboys gone? Overwatch, apparently

 

(In which Hanzo Shimada meets Jesse McCree)

 

 

Hanzo adjusts his grip on his duffel. His palm is sweating, slipping on the smooth, synthetic weave of the strap. It's a blistering day outside, unrelenting sun and a thick, heavy humidity than matches the sick heaviness in Hanzo's stomach, but the air inside the Watchpoint is cool and fresh. Hanzo still feels hot despite the air-conditioning. Perhaps he spent too long in the heat as he walked here – perhaps it is just the weight of what he is here to do.

 

He keeps his breathing calm to ease the knots in his throat, and follows the silver gleam of Genji's back down the hall. Resolute. He has made his decision and it is too late to change it. He is not going to go back on his word.

 

Quiet and sure-footed, Genji leads him down a labyrinthine path of corridors and walkways. Hanzo begins to suspect he is being shown the long route to their destination. A tactic to make him lose his bearings, perhaps; to stymie his sense of direction, should he prove a threat after all.

 

Some of the halls show signs of disuse and disrepair. Most though are clean, the floors and panelled walls obviously newly scrubbed and shining. The lights are bright. Their reflections slip over Genji's sleek form like sunlight glinting on the ripples of a koi pond.

 

Hanzo clenches his jaw. This creature wearing his brother's name, his brother's face, his brother's memories; so much of him is familiar, and yet Hanzo does not know him at all. The discrepancy keeps flickering at his awareness like trying to recall an old dream, images hazy and indistinct. The edges of a thought that you can almost remember, that slithers away when you try to grasp hold.

 

Genji taps a pace ahead of him, merely an arm's length away. Close enough Hanzo could reach out and touch, if he wished, but the distance between them is beyond physical. A decade of pain may as well be as far as from here to the ends of the earth.

 

Not for the first time, Hanzo wonders why he came. Surely there is nothing for him in this place but futility.

 

But he is not going to go back on his word.

 

Genji leads him up another set of stairs and stops outside a sliding door.

 

“Here we are.” He fidgets with his fingers. Hanzo's brother used to do the same, when he was nervous. “The team's all in there waiting. They've been looking forward to you coming, I think – I've been asked many questions about you.” He laughs, a mechanical whir. “I told them you are a great and powerful warrior, of course. Some believed I was exaggerating your skill, but you will soon show them I was not, eh?”

 

Hanzo shifts the duffel from one hand to the other. He says nothing.

 

Genji looks at him for a moment, expression unknowable behind the visor. “Don't worry, Hanzo,” he says. “They are good people. Strange, but good. I've made many friends here. People I trust with my life.”

 

Genji once trusted Hanzo with his life. He crushes the thought like a paper crane.

 

“I hope one day you will come to see them as I do.” Always the idealist. “And, ah-” Genji pauses and glances over his shoulder. “Don't be too surprised about Winston. He is a scientist. Just remember that and you'll be fine.”

 

The doors open to reveal some sort of surveillance room, computers and holoscreens almost hidden behind piles of boxes. A large table takes up the middle of the room. Gathered around it is a bewildering collection of people who don't look like they ought to have anything to do with one another; all different heights and sizes and ages and ethnicities. And – he blinks – a _gorilla._

 

“ _A gorilla,_ ” he mutters. Genji elbows him discreetly and nudges him inside.

 

The group turn almost as one to look at them. Some of their faces Hanzo recognises; he didn't agree to come here without doing his research, after all. The small woman in yellow he knows to be Tracer, hero of the original Overwatch. The omnic is Genji's teacher. There's a young man with dreadlocks who Hanzo recognises but cannot place, but the blonde woman is unmistakable. Dr. Ziegler. The one who turned Genji into... whatever he is now.

 

The one who saved him from Hanzo's mistakes.

 

He is wrest from the twist of his thoughts by the gorilla moving forward to meet them. “Shimada Hanzo,” he greets with a polite incline of his large head. “Welcome to Watchpoint Gibraltar. My name is Winston, and this-” he splays an arm at the group – “is Overwatch.”

 

“Part of it, anyway,” Genji pipes up from Hanzo's side.

 

“Yes, right.” Winston clears his throat. “Some agents are located elsewhere at the moment, and others will be joining us in the coming weeks. You'll have the chance to meet them all eventually. For the time being this is where we are: Overwatch's new beginning.”

 

Hanzo's muscles feel stiff and seized with tension, but he manages not to let it show too much as he bows. “It is an honor to be here.”

 

The gorilla – _Winston_ – adjusts his glasses and looks over his shoulder. “Right. Uhm, let's start with introductions, shall we..?”

 

The man closest to them steps forward. Hanzo knows of him, too; a gunslinger, one with a generous bounty on his head. He is lucky Hanzo is not here to collect.

 

Hanzo flicks his eyes over the man, evaluating. Hat, messy hair and beard, red cape, spurs; he'd thought the man's outfit in his wanted pictures to be some sort of working costume, an absurd choice of persona, but not so – apparently this man simply prefers to dress like an overgrown cowboy.

 

“So you're the infamous brother Shimada,” the cowboy says, wide mouth quirked in a lop-sided smirk.

 

Genji gestures between them. “Hanzo, meet Jesse McCree.”

 

This _McCree_ sticks out a large hand. His knuckles are dusted in dark hair, his skin dry, with rough callouses on his fingers and the heel of his palm. There's dirt under his nails. “Pleasure t' make your acquaintance, Hanzo,” he drawls, overly familiar. His laconic voice stretches the vowels of Hanzo's name into something warped and foreign. “Genji's told us all sorts about you.”

 

Hanzo eyes him sharply. Is that a threat? How much, exactly, has Genji told these people of their shared past? The cowboy's expression doesn't even flicker, mouth still sprawled in a lazy smile, but his dark eyes are keen and assessing.

 

Hanzo ignores his outstretched hand and bows tightly, keeping his eyes fixed on the cowboy's face.

 

To his surprise, McCree takes this in stride. “Ah, o' course.” He withdraws his hand, sweeps the hat from his head and holds it to his chest, and bends over it, bowing in return – or making a passing attempt at it, at least.

 

Hanzo's unsure if the man is being polite or mocking, but it does not matter. The others are now crowding around to be introduced. He gives McCree a slight nod and turns away to meet them, but not before the cowboy returns the hat to his head and winks at him.

 

“Welcome to the rodeo, darlin'.”

 

 *  *  *

  

Hanzo strides into the kitchen just gone 8 am, far later than he means to. He's been in Gibraltar a few days now, but the jet-lag still has its claws in him and he's having trouble sleeping. The constant clamor of other people isn't helping. Hanzo has grown accustomed to being alone. Suddenly having to factor _colleagues_ into his routine has proven more unsettling than he'd anticipated.

 

The communal kitchen is set up like a canteen, haphazard but decently supplied, with a spacious dining area. Tracer and Mei are sitting at one of the long benched tables as Hanzo enters. They say good morning, he returns the greeting, and the women go back to their discussion. This suits Hanzo fine. He is in no mood for idle chat. He responds when people talk to him, of course; it wouldn't do to be rude when he is a guest. But he is here to work. To work and to seek atonement. He has no intention of making friends.

 

Hanzo finds himself some cereal – cheap and far too sugary, but it'll do – and goes about brewing some tea, loose-leaf and thankfully of a much better quality than the cereal. He takes this to an empty seat on the other end of the table from Tracer and Mei, opens his personal tablet to the _Yomiuri Shimbun_ , and settles in for a quiet breakfast.

 

It isn't long before he is disturbed by a sound that is becoming distressingly familiar: the thin, metallic clink of spurred boots.

 

Hanzo checks the time on his tablet. 8.17. He makes a mental note.

 

“Morning Jesse!” Tracer calls over to the cowboy as he comes in, trailing tiredness.

 

“G'mornin', ladies. Shimada.”

 

“Sleep well, luv?”

 

McCree shoots Tracer a smile as he lopes past the table, making a beeline for the coffee pot. “Can't complain,” he says. “Bunk's a touch musty still but it beats catchin' winks on the road, that's for sure.” He pours himself a cup and turns round, leaning against the counter with his legs crossed. “And how are you this fine morning, miss Lena?”

 

“You know what, I'm brilliant,” she chirps. “Nipped down to the beach for a run this morning and the sea was lovely. Jesse, you should join me some time!”

 

McCree takes a sip of his coffee. “Mm. Too early for that,” he says. “Y'all'd need to slow down, can't expect an old-timer like me to keep up.”

 

Tracer cackles gleefully. “Can't slow down, mate!” she says, knocking her knuckles on her harness. “And pfft, you're not _old._ C'mon, stop being daft and come train with me, we'll have a right laugh.”

 

“A 'right laugh' when I collapse 'cause you've run me ragged?” he huffs amiably. “Tell you what, sweetheart, I'll think about it, but don't go holdin' your breath.”

 

Hanzo tunes out of their conversation as more people filter into the room. Struggling with his cereal, he wonders where Genji is – meditating with the omnic, perhaps? Has he taken breakfast already, or will he eat later? ..Does he need to eat at all? _Can_ he?

 

Red catches Hanzo's attention as McCree walks past again – his tattered blanket. The man seems more awake now he's had some caffeine. He clinks about, saying hello to people, patting backs, stepping in and out of conversations with ease. He stops to talk to the man with the dreadlocks.

 

They are in Hanzo's line of sight, clearly visible past his tablet, so he lets himself watch. He may as well use this time to figure out the group's dynamics, to figure out its people, when they are not busy trying to do the same to him. Lúcio, Hanzo remembers from his file, is an activist and musician. Young and impassioned, small in stature but full of bounding energy. Probably a more formidable enemy than he looks.

 

McCree meanwhile is very... large. A good few inches taller than Hanzo, and just as broad across the shoulders, with thick arms and a hefty chest. He is of course far smaller than some of the other agents Hanzo has met – the woman with the pink hair, for instance, and that enormous German – but he does not seem so. His body is not the largest thing about him. He is one of those people whose presence seems to extend beyond himself, occupying all the space around him. He walks into a room, swaggering, with that flashy red cape and his hat and that obnoxious shiny belt buckle, and draws everyone's attention, sways them all with his assurance, his ridiculous cowboy charm.

 

Hanzo has read McCree's file as well. Supposedly he was a bounty hunter. Supposedly, he used to work for Overwatch's covert division. Hanzo does not see how such a thing is possible. The man is so obvious it's a wonder he isn't dead ten times over.

 

Hanzo pushes aside his unfinished cereal and picks up his tea. He watches over the rim of the cup as McCree laughs at something the young musician is telling him. Loudly, of course, not just in noise but in movement, with his head thrown back and his shoulders shaking up and down as he guffaws. _Guffaws_. It is not a word Hanzo had ever understood the need for before – English seems to have so many pointless words that mean the same thing – but it makes sense, now. This is not a simple laugh. It is a guffaw, loud and rolling and unrestrained. Lúcio laughs back, punching McCree on the arm in a gentle manner, and just like that, the cowboy has made a new friend.

 

Hanzo frowns and forces his gaze back to his tablet. There is no point in dwelling on the cowboy. Here, Hanzo is surrounded by foreigners; people whose customs and habits are strange to him, and who seem inclined to socialise in ways he is not used to. There is no escaping it, so he will simply have to adjust. There is no other choice.

 

Try as he might, though, his attention will not focus. The words he is reading pass unregistered, his mind instead following the movements of everyone in the room. It is especially easy to keep track of the cowboy as he sidles about. He is large, and loud, and hairy, and carries fat on him in a way that suggests he was once very lean but has grown lazy with age. His ridiculous boots jingle when he walks. He is very hard not to notice.

 

It is annoying.

 

Hanzo will endure it, at least for a while, because Genji wants him to, and Hanzo is determined to show he will take his obligations seriously. But he is only a guest here. Perhaps, once he has proven himself, he can request to become an independent agent. Then he can return to the field, to working alone, as he knows best, and he will no longer have to concern himself with noisy, irritating cowboys. It is an option to consider, at least.

 

The hair on the back of his neck prickles. Hanzo glances up; his eyes meet McCree's. The cowboy blinks then looks away.

 

The noise in the dining hall is growing too much. Hanzo feels his patience slipping like silk through his fingers. Best to leave now, before it wears too thin.

 

Tomorrow he will rise earlier, and hopefully find more peace.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Hanzo. He'll figure things out eventually.
> 
> I'll admit I'm not 100% on my lore but... if Tracer was part of the original Overwatch, she would've been like. super young. right?? Blizzard your timelines confuse me


	2. Six gun sound is his claim to fame

 

(In which Hanzo finds out the rumors are true: Jesse McCree is a damn good shot)

 

  

The arrow hits the target with a dull _thwack_.

 

Hanzo reaches back to his quiver and fires off two more arrows in quick succession, one a little lower, one higher. Stomach, head, heart. All three hit their mark.

 

The shooting range is his favorite place in the Watchpoint, outside the solitude of his room. As with all the training facilities here it's state-of-the-art, systems still high-tech even after years of disuse. A testimony to the prestige Overwatch once held. Much like the large simulation area used for team training, the ranges can be adapted to suit a wide variety of specialisms, and were built to accommodate a number of people far greater than those who occupy the base now. Hanzo has used this to his advantage. He's worked out the times and spots he can practice, if not completely alone, then reasonably undisturbed.

 

He flows through the motions like water. The movement of the arrow from the quiver to the bow; the breath, the aim, the release. The satisfaction of a well-placed shot. It's the most peaceful thing he's known in years that he has not found at the bottom of a bottle. The places in his mind he used to draw on for meditation are tainted; these days when he visits them his steps leave bloody footprints on the tatami, and he cannot cope to linger. Here, he is in tune with himself, his body only an extension of his weapon. No space in his thoughts for anything else.

 

Unless something else forces its way in. The doors slide open and the large room echoes with the ring of spurs.

 

“Welcome, Agent McCree,” the AI calls over the speakers.

 

“Mornin', Athena.” The cowboy tips his hat to Hanzo as he rattles past to the next lane. Hanzo ignores him and goes to reclaim his fired arrows.

 

“Would you like to run your preferred routine?”

 

“Just set me up with a warm-up for now, doll, thank you kindly.”

 

A gunslinger, of course, must carry a gun, though McCree's weapon of choice isn't a modern pulse rifle or energy weapon. Instead, he uses an old-fashioned revolver. Hanzo's own Storm Bow may also be old-fashioned – ancient, even – but it is sleek and practical, and above all it's _quiet_. Hanzo has not yet seen the cowboy shoot, but he doesn't need to see it to know that his weapon, like its owner, is loud.

 

He shakes off the irritation. Put the intrusion out of mind. Ignore all distractions.

 

He readies his bow again, but finds his attention drawn away despite himself. The cowboy hasn't yet fired one shot but he keeps pulling poses, squaring his shoulders, twisting on his feet and cocking his hips. He twirls his gun in his palm, spinning it around his fingers. Flashy. Unnecessary.

 

It catches him by surprise: one moment McCree is idling, the next he draws tight. Everything in him pulls into focus, a force behind the point of his gun that he releases with six quick-fire shots. The target bots rattle with the impact, each now with a hole through the heart.

 

McCree falls loose again. He knocks up the brim of his hat and leans back on his heel, glances over at Hanzo and smirks. “Impressive, huh?”

 

 _Loud_. _Arrogant. Distracting._ “I am aware of your reputation,” Hanzo sniffs, instead of sharing his thoughts. “It appears to be justified.”

 

The cowboy puffs up comically, looking pleased.

 

Hanzo turns away, examining his retrieved arrows before he slots them back in his quiver. “Of course, stationary targets are no bearing on how well you perform in a real fight.” He flicks his fingers at the downed bots. “A shot to the chest against an armoured opponent will do little compared to a shot to the head, for example.”

 

McCree's face droops a bit, but then he smirks again, eyes narrowing. "That sounds like a challenge, Mister Shimada."

 

“Take it however you like. I do not care.” Satisfied with his arrows, Hanzo slings his bow over his body and walks away.

 

“Wha- now hold up. Wait a minute, where're you goin'?”

 

“I have an appointment with Genji,” Hanzo throws over his shoulder. It isn't quite a lie; the two of them have agreed to talk at least once a day, if only for five minutes, but they are not due to meet for an hour yet. Still, he cannot stay here. His peace is disturbed, now, and he will not get it back, not with the cowboy twirling on the edge of his vision like a red spectre, or the heart-stopping bang of his gun.

 

 

 

*  *  *

 

 

Hanzo ducks just in time, cursing under his breath as the plaster behind him bursts open with a sharp crack, right where his head had been. He lies still for a second and listens, calculating.

 

This isn't his first mission with Overwatch but it's the first where things have gone wrong. They're both outnumbered and out-gunned. If Hanzo was working alone he would have fallen back long ago, as soon as it became clear he had underestimated the situation. But he is not on his own. He has no authority to demand a retreat.

 

Staying low beneath the windows, he creeps to the end of the hall and slips out of the fire escape. It opens out above a narrow alley, the buildings close enough that Hanzo can hop between the walls, clambering up to the roof. Keeping his body low, he scours the streets before him over the ledge. From the corner of his eye he catches a distant flash of green – Lúcio – but no hint of purple, no telltale glint of light on the lens of a long scope.

 

The dragons writhe under his skin, restless. Where is she?

 

This was supposed to have been an easy mission. A small team, simple recon, looking into information Winston uncovered about possible Talon movement not far from King's Row. Hanzo snorts to himself, scanning the surrounding buildings. He may not have analysed all the data like the ape has but he knows a trap when he steps into one. Usually he sees them _before_ he steps in, and takes care to avoid them. He does not appreciate being sent in unprepared.

 

The enemy has a sniper and she is _good_. Very good. Hanzo has been forced to move more than he would like to avoid her sights and to get her in his. He has been forced to abandon Lúcio, Zarya and McCree to fight the Talon agents on the ground on their own. It's against protocol: Hanzo is supposed to be providing cover fire only, but he cannot keep the sniper off their backs if his eyes are fixed to the earth. Instead of defense, he's gone on the attack, herding the enemy away from the others, leaving the boom of Zarya's particle cannon and the crack of McCree's revolver echoing on the streets behind.

 

An old, primal part of him is thrilling with adrenalin. A hunt is always more fun when your quarry is as smart and as deadly as you. Hanzo has not been challenged like this in years.

 

He itches to close the distance. Hanzo may no longer use a sword, but he is still skilled in close-quarters combat, and it's something she will not expect him to try. If he can get close enough he can end the threat with a simple snap of his arms around her neck.

 

The hunger pulses. His grip tightens on his bow. Of course, if he can get a clear shot, he will not have to get close at all.

 

A shadow shifts up the street. High ledge. 200 metres. Hanzo breathes; steady – _there._

 

He looses the arrow.

 

The dragons roar with it, their fury cutting a lightning blue scream through the dull grey sky.

 

Hanzo leaps to the next rooftop, following their path of destruction. He scales a wall, vaults over an air duct, skirts round a water tower – and comes face-to-face with the muzzle of an enormous gun.

 

The woman in purple smiles.

 

“ _Bonjour,_ _petit loup_.”

 

The concrete explodes in a hail of bullets.

 

Hanzo throws himself off the building. His palms scrape open on the brick but there's no time to register the sting as he lands heavily and takes off running, dodging into the shadows to lose the spray of fire. London is an old city, whole areas built on top of each other over centuries, the streets unplanned, buildings squeezed wherever they will fit. Broken sightlines. Lots of cover. Hanzo uses it all to disappear from her sight.

 

Behind the pounding of his blood, voices stir in the back of his head. They scold him; the wizened, tempered-steel scorn of his old masters. They scoff at him thinking he'd had the close-quarters advantage. For all his strength and skill, he is no match at _point blank_ against an _automatic weapon_.

 

Outsmarted. Unprepared. Foolish boy. You have grown weak and stupid.

 

He shoves the ghosts away. _Focus._

 

He's moved too far from the group. He loops around to hurry back, but shouts from a side-street catch his attention. More Talon. Eight of them. They've spotted him.

 

He curses, darts round a corner and sends a scatter arrow ricocheting – one of them falls with a gurgling cry. Seven. Still too many, and Hanzo is down to his last two arrows. Forced to lower ground and with no leverage all he can do is run, aware of his pursuers on foot and the one who may still be watching from the rooftops. He weaves through passageways and underpasses, trying to lose them, but he does not know these streets. His route funnels him into a grimy alley. A dead end.

 

The walls of an abandoned apartment building rise above him on all sides. Easy to climb, but if he climbs, he's exposed, with no way to defend himself. If he stays grounded he can at least take some of his enemies down with him before they riddle his body with bullets.

 

Heavy footsteps follow him around the corner. Seven men against one. Hanzo takes an arrow from his quiver and nocks it. He breathes.

 

A hush falls over the alley. The silence of a dead land under the midday sun. Sweat drips down Hanzo's neck.

 

The silence shatters with a heart-stopping bang. Six men drop. The last hesitates a moment and pays for it with an arrow through the neck.

 

All dead between one beat of blood and the next. Hanzo lowers his bow, limbs still ringing with shock. A flash of red, the jingle of spurs – the Cowboy steps into sight, blowing smoke from the barrel of his gun.

 

“Howdy, partner.” He spins the gun into its holster, a silver whirl. Tips his hat. “Pardon me for droppin' by uninvited.”

 

Hanzo stares at him. Slowly, the grim jaws of impending death release their grip. The cold acceptance of his fate thaws from his lungs and heart; it drains down his arms, drips through his fingers to the cracked tarmac.

 

McCree's low voice shakes him from his reverie. “Glad I caught up with you when I did. This op's turned into a bigger beast than we anticipated.”

 

Hanzo walks over and examines one of the shot men: a perfect, bloodied hole, right through the middle of the forehead. The same thing on the next. And the next.

 

“The whole mission was a mess from the start,” Hanzo replies. His own voice sounds strained to his ears.

 

McCree huffs what could be a laugh. “Not gonna disagree with you there.”

 

Winston's voice crackles over the comms, gruff and serious. “Hanzo, McCree; I'm calling an evac. Fall back to the extraction point. You're withdrawing.”

 

“Copy that, big guy.” He tilts his head at Hanzo. “C'mon. Better turf out 'fore the MET show up.”

 

Hanzo spares one glance for the bodies in the alley, another for the skyline, then follows in McCree's footsteps.

 

 

 

*  *  *

 

 

In the safety of the carrier, Hanzo allows Lúcio to clean and heal his ripped palms then settles back into his seat and closes his eyes. The thrum of the engine washes the closeness of the others in white noise. It allows him to think, to remember; the red, the ring of spurs, the deafening shot. His own arrow loosed as a mere after-thought into the thundering silence.

 

Six bullet holes dead-centre, straight through the third eye.

 

The whole team is quiet and subdued when they land back in Gibraltar. Hanzo needs to rest, but he cannot, not yet. The questions buzz under his skin. When they're dismissed after a quick debriefing, he pads after McCree. The cowboy is tired, as they all are, and it makes him seem smaller than usual, somehow. Less vibrant.

 

The other man turns down the corridor for the bunks. Hanzo hurries his pace to catch up.

 

"McCree."

 

"Hm?” McCree glances back at him and slows to a stop. “Shimada-san, what can I help you with?"

 

The others have all disappeared. There's no one else in the hallway when Hanzo checks. He looks back to McCree and squares his shoulders. "I... wanted to thank you. For your assistance today."

 

McCree's wide mouth twitches into a small smile. "Not a problem, partner," he says, "s' just how we do things around here.” He shuffles his feet. “'Sides, it was more repayin' the favor – I reckon I'd've had my head blown out from under my hat ten times today, if you hadn't been so gracious with keepin' that lil' lady and her sniper rifle occupied."

 

Hanzo makes a dubious noise. “I believe Winston is displeased with me for acting against protocol.”

 

“Maybe a bit, but he'll get over it,” McCree says assuredly, like he knows it to be fact. “Winston's a great fella, real smart too, but he's not got much experience running ops. I'm not sure he truly realises how much better it is to have a failed mission than to be plannin' funerals. Hopefully he'll never find out.” He tugs his blanket tighter round his shoulders, his eyes going distant for a moment. “Sometimes you gotta ignore the rules. Sometimes playing by the book only gets everyone killed. Now I ain't sayin' you had to go off and take her on by yourself, but... for what it's worth, I think you made the right call in the heat of the moment, an' I thank you for it.”

 

Hanzo nods. His thoughts flit over the day's events, the scene in the alley churning round and again to the fore of his mind like a dragon chasing its tail.

 

McCree shifts with a clink of metal. "Was there... anythin' else you needed-?"

 

“Yes,” Hanzo interrupts. He takes a breath. "Your gun, in the alley. I have never seen you – seen _anyone_ – shoot like that. How did you do it?"

 

"Ah, that." McCree's grin looks more like a grimace. He plucks a fresh cigar from a pocket and sticks it in his mouth, then circles his right shoulder, like it's aching. "Just an old trick I picked up from a mentor o' mine, long time ago."

 

 _A trick._ "You shot six men in the blink of an eye." Hanzo pokes himself in the centre of his forehead. "Right here. With absolute precision. How?"

 

McCree rolls the unlit cigar between his teeth and studies him. "Don't rightly know _how_ it works,” he says slowly. "Not so's I could explain it, anyhow. All that's ever mattered is it does."

 

"How can you have an ability like that and not know what it is?"

 

"Dunno.” McCree shrugs. “Never asked my mentor how they learned it or where it came from, an' to be honest with you, I don't really care to find out. It's just a feelin' I get, that's all. I see things clear, line 'em up, an' then-" he cocks the fingers of his flesh hand like a gun, fires. _Bang._

 

"A feeling.”

 

"That's what I said. Why, what about you? Your magic dragons, how'd they work?"

 

Hanzo bristles. "They are spirits."

 

"So Genji's told me, but how do they _work_?"

 

"They are bound to our bloodline,” Hanzo sighs, reciting the lesson he'd had drilled into him over and over as a child. “When they are needed in battle, they can be summoned, directed into action through the proper words and thought."

 

McCree nods, wrinkling his nose. "Yeah, I get that, but you can't use 'em all the time, right? How'd you know when they're happy to be summoned versus when they ain't?"

 

Hanzo blinks. How does he know? He knows because the dragons speak to him, but they do not use words. It is a coil, a crescendo, a movement of some part of Hanzo's being that is deep and ancient, that rises to roar through his blood. He cannot describe it, not in his native tongue and certainly not in any words the cowboy would understand.

 

His eyes flick up to McCree's. They're a rich warm brown, tired-rimmed but bright with a spark of curiosity. Hanzo does not owe him an explanation. He owes this scruffy man nothing, except... except only a few hours ago, this scruffy man saved his life.

 

He looks away. "It is... a feeling."

 

"Can't explain it, huh?" McCree's chuckle is a low rumble, different from his barks of laughter, his loud guffaw. Softer and quieter. An oddly pleasant sound. "Don't blame ya," he continues. "Those dragons are quite a sight, I gotta say."

 

"You saw me use them?"

 

"I did indeed. Impressive stuff. Not something I'm hankerin' to be on the receiving end of, that's for damn sure."

 

The voices stir in Hanzo's memories again, disappointed with his lack of success. Annoyance creeps back up his spine. "I meant to destroy the sniper," he huffs, "but she evaded me, even with the dragons."

 

"Eh, I wouldn't worry your pretty head about it." McCree scratches at his beard. "We've tangled with Widowmaker before n' she's a slippery piece o' work. Not worth beatin' yourself up for."

 

Hanzo grunts. He can still feel the rooftop splintering beneath his feet. He turns to walk away, but McCree turns with him, keeping pace.

 

"Y'know, those dragons weren't the only impressive thing," he says. He's starting to get loud again. "I ain't ever seen a man shoot a bow and arrow like you. Your aim is somethin' else, I gotta say. And your timing."

 

Is he always this effusive with his praise? Little wonder he so easily makes friends. "You have seen me shoot before," Hanzo says, tugging subtly at the collar of his kyudo-gi. The corridor is rather warm.

 

"Yeah, but you said it yourself, Shimada-san – a shootin' range ain't nothing like a genuine fight."

 

 _Shimada-san_. Hanzo severed himself from his titles a long time ago, and though Shimada is still his name, it sounds strange coming from McCree's mouth. The man had called him by his given name when they first met. Hanzo is unsure why he stopped.

 

“..You may call me Hanzo,” he says, after a moment. “Given the circumstances of today, the formality seems... unnecessary.”

 

McCree gives him a considering look. “Hanzo.” His drawl still stretches out the vowels, but this time it does not sound like an insult. He nods. “All right, I can do that.” He plucks the cigar from his mouth and circles it, gesturing at Hanzo. “Anyhow, you were on fire today, Hanzo. That's what I was meaning to say.”

 

Hanzo arches a brow. "On fire..? I take it that is a compliment."

 

"You're damn right it's a compliment," McCree says, grinning foolishly. The longer they've talked the more energised he has become, like a battery in reverse. He reminds Hanzo of an attention-starved dog, scruffy and eager to please. He rocks back on his heels and forwards again, spurs tinkling. "Say. How about you n' me head down to the range tomorrow, have ourselves a lil' tête-à-tête? Maybe lay some wagers, see who's the better sharpshooter."

 

Hanzo runs his fingers down his bowstring. He smirks. "I would think that is already obvious."

 

McCree laughs. "Oh-ho! Them's fightin' words! So you in, then?"

 

It's a genuine invitation, Hanzo thinks, made sincerely. Still, he hesitates. It is true that the cowboy's reputation is earned; training with him could prove enjoyable, and if nothing else, competition with a worthy opponent will help keep Hanzo's skills sharp. And this conversation has been easier than he had anticipated, but...

 

McCree's grin wavers. "I got more trickshots up my sleeve, if you're interested," he says. "No pressure though."

 

He owes the cowboy nothing, but it seems there is more to McCree than just the cowboy, more than the loudness and the bigness and the ridiculous clothes, and Hanzo is curious.

 

"Very well." He nods smartly. "I accept your offer.”

 

The grin brightens again. McCree tilts his hat back from his face. "We got a deal, then! Now I take my breakfast later than you, so let's say we meet at... 0930? At the range."

 

Hanzo nods again. "I will be there."

 

"Great." McCree hovers for a moment, then tips his hat – a gesture of respect. "I'll be seein' you, Hanzo. You have a good night." With that he turns on his heel and walks off down the corridor, whistling to himself.

 

Hanzo watches him go, and wonders quite what he's got himself in for.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this took longer to finish than i was expecting!! first time writing an action scene and boy, that was _hard_. i have so much respect for all you guys who write action on the regular. hopefully my own attempt works ok //sweats  
>  i actually had this whole fic planned and drafted in one day, but each section keeps growing when i work on them and it just keeps... getting longer.... i'll try and get chapter 3 out more quickly but err no promises haha
> 
> thanks for the comments and kudos xx


	3. Drunks in a midnight choir

 

(In which Hanzo learns that Jesse McCree is musically inclined)

 

 

The room bursts into applause, whistles and whoops & half-drunken shouts as Reinhardt soars astonishingly through the high-note. Hanzo claps along, chuckling quietly as the huge man takes an elaborate bow and hops off the makeshift stage of bolted-together pallets.

 

Hanzo had no interest in the karaoke party when Genji first mentioned it to him, but then Lena had asked if he was coming, then Hana got involved, and somewhere along the line he found himself wrangled into attending, too weak to say no. He doesn't mind; he'll admit that he's enjoying himself, even if he adamantly refuses to get on stage. Watching is more than enough.

 

The heat of Gilbraltan summer has long since been bested by the cool touch of winter. Holiday spirits are in full swing at the Watchpoint. Hanzo has been here several months now – the longest he's spent living in one place in years, possibly since he left Hanamura – and to his surprise he isn't feeling any urge to move on, not yet. While he still doesn't quite feel part of this odd group, he's content with his place on the sidelines. A guest on an extended visit but welcomed all the same.

 

He's lounging comfortably on one of the less lumpy couches in the recreation room next to Mei, who has a colorful drink in her hands and a warm flush on her cheeks. She sways and bobs to the music, mouthing along to the words with a smile.

 

“Will you be singing?” Hanzo asks her, after Fareeha finishes an upbeat song he vaguely remembers playing a lot in the arcade one summer, when he'd had to spend hours there keeping eye on a wayward Genji.

 

Mei giggles and shakes her head. “Oh, no! I'm much too shy for that.” She takes a sip of her cocktail then gives it a considering look. “Although... after another one of these, maybe. How about you, Hanzo?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Are _you_ going to sing? You should!” She takes another long sip through her straw, large eyes drowsy and happy behind her glasses.

 

“Hah. No.” Hanzo crosses his arms, huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “No, I think I will spare you all that experience, and spare myself the humiliation.”

 

“You say that as though you can't sing.”

 

“Because I cannot.”

 

Mei wrinkles her nose. “Don't be modest, Hanzo. I'm sure that's not true.”

 

“It isn't false modesty. It's self-preservation.” Raising his chin, he declares loftily, “Stringent knowledge of one's weaknesses ensures they cannot be exploited.”

 

Her smile turns sly. “So I couldn't dare you?”

 

Hanzo arches his brow. “You will have to find your entertainment elsewhere, Miss Zhou,” he says, making her giggle again.

 

They sit and talk through a couple more songs before Mei spots Zarya in the crowd. She gets up to speak with her, face as pink as the bodybuilder's hair. Hanzo watches her trek eagerly across the room.

 

The large space is homage to the time of year. A Christmas tree in the corner is barely visible under the piles of baubles and tinsel that smother it. More tinsel and paper-chains hang stapled from the walls and ceiling, along with an array of origami & cut-paper snowflakes – mistletoe, too, which Hanzo has been carefully avoiding. A menorah sits on a side-table next to red-leafed poinsettias. There's even a couple of paper hand-turkeys stuck to the walls – leftovers from McCree's Thanksgiving party, which he'd insisted on having despite being the only American on site. Someone has given the birds little paper hats.

 

The people are just as decorated. Lena has wrapped a piece of blue tinsel around her neck. Others are wearing festive hats and fuzzy felt antlers, while Reinhardt has squeezed into a striped snowman sweater that's almost as loud as he is. They've all got some sort of glitter on them – even Torbjörn, who's been chivvied from his workshop and has slumped lower and lower in his chair with each refill of his tankard. His beard is sparkling. Hanzo has no idea where the glitter came from, though he has his suspicions. Genji's been flitting about the room all evening. Now he's sitting serenely next to Zenyatta, who's swaying to the music in much the same way Mei had done. The lights on the omnic's head brighten and dim in time to the beat.

 

Despite all the cheer and hubbub, something is noticeably missing from the festivities. McCree's turkeys may be here but the man himself isn't. The gathering seems oddly empty without his laughter, without the sight of his hat and red serape, or him waving his big hands about as he talks.

 

Hanzo stays until the crowd and the noise become too much. Hana and Lúcio have started some sort of competition, the rules to which Hanzo can't fathom; they are loud and fast and young in a way he never was, and suddenly he feels very drained. He gets up quietly to leave.

 

He almost makes it to the doors before a metal hand touches his arm.

 

“Going so soon, Hanzo?”

 

“Yes.” He shrugs Genji off, and instantly feels ashamed. It curdles sour in his chest. He forces himself to meet the unwavering green light of the visor head-on. “..It is getting late, and I am tired.”

 

“Too much excitement for one evening, eh?” Genji nods, glancing back over his shoulder at the kids on the stage, stomping their feet to the rhythm, singing into each other's faces without need to see the words. He reaches out, pauses; when Hanzo doesn't flinch, he rests his hand gently on his shoulder. "Thank you for coming, brother."

 

_Brother._ He says it so often but it is still unnerving. As boys, Genji would have teased Hanzo for leaving a party early. As they grew older the teasing turned to mocking; the mocking, to anger and ice-cold silence. Now... now, Hanzo can hear the warmth in his voice. _Unnerving_.

 

Hanzo nods to him and pushes through the doors.

 

The thudding of bass fades as he wanders down the halls to his bunk. Hanzo slides his door closed behind him, cutting off the last notes, and leans back against it with a sigh. The quiet brings blissful relief from the pinch forming behind his eyes but leaves him over-aware of the thump of his own heartbeat in his veins. Tired, but too on edge for sleep, he looks about for something to do. All that greets him is the neatly made bed, the sparse furnishing, the surfaces free of any clutter – no decoration at all, in fact, save a small flyer for Hana's merchandise the girl gave him, which Hanzo propped up against the built-in console for lack of knowing what else to do with it.

 

It's a room that looks like its occupant could leave at any moment. Five minutes to empty the drawers into his duffel and pick up his bow, and there'd be no trace that Hanzo had been here at all.

 

It's what he's used to. The life of an assassin is transient. Even as a young man in Hanamura, the things that brought him joy had belonged to other people or to no one at all: his mother's favorite blue kimono; his father's mahjong set; the swirl of blossoms in the spring air. The whole clan was his. He'd seen little need for personal trinkets. The only things he'd truly treasured for himself had been his katana, and his little brother.

 

Genji has a framed photo of the two of them in his room here in the Watchpoint. Hanzo had stared at it the one time he'd been invited in, struggling for composure as Genji explained – casually, as if it were nothing – that he'd retrieved it during an old Overwatch offensive on the clan; that he'd kept it; that he brought it here with him all the way from Nepal. It rests in an honored place next to the stand for his swords.

 

Hanzo has nothing of Genji in his own room. He has very little even of himself.

 

For once it isn't a respite. Tonight the room feels too small, suffocating in its emptiness after the boisterous din of the party. Hanzo lingers only long enough to dig out the bottle of sake he'd stashed away and escapes out the window.

 

* * *

 

The night is beautiful and clear. He settles on the roof above the dorms and gazes up at the stars. This far out from the city there's little light pollution, and the sky yawns above him, a deep, dark stretch, scattered with light from distant worlds. The vast, ancient tapestry of the universe.

 

It makes him feel small. Like nothing.

 

He opens the sake and takes a long pull from the bottle. The stars are probably even more spectacular in Nepal. Hanzo wouldn't know; he's never been.

 

A few minutes pass before something catches his ear. At first he thinks it's the party, but it's too close, the sound too soft and thin. He stoppers the bottle and listens, trying to locate it.

 

The faint strains of music. Downwind, beyond the roof. Hanzo stands silently and creeps forward, peers over the edge.

 

So this is where McCree got to. Below on the balcony sits the cowboy, sprawled atop his folded serape, picking idly at a guitar. His hat rests at his side, his right ankle hooked over his left shin, the instrument almost cradled in his lap. Bathed in moonlight, he looks rumpled and worn but comfortable, as if he has always been sitting there; a man hewn from the earth itself, as belonging as the rocks or the waves or the salt in the breeze that stirs his wild hair.

 

His long fingers shift on the frets. The picking turns to gentle strumming, and McCree starts to hum, a slow, sombre tune, that Hanzo recognizes but cannot place. He leans forward to hear better.

 

McCree stops with a discordant twang. He hushes the guitar with quick fingers and whips round to check his flanks, the door, up above his head – their eyes meet. He sags back against the wall, relieved.

 

"Oh, it's just you."

 

"Apologies. I didn't mean to disturb you."

 

McCree angles his head up and smiles at him. "Ain't nothing, Hanzo." He readjusts the guitar in his lap, smoothing his fingers up and down the fretboard like he's petting an animal. "You gonna come down here? I'll get a crick in my neck starin' up at you."

 

"You don't have to look."

 

"And miss your pretty face?" McCree grins at his joke, then lowers his chin and waves his arm. "C'mon, get down here. You'll give me the heebie jeebies perched up there behind me like that."

 

Hanzo tucks the sake bottle into his obi and slips over the edge of the roof, landing neatly on the balcony below.

 

McCree snorts. “Darn ninjas. Why can't y'all just use the door like a normal person.”

 

With exaggerated grace Hanzo settles cross-legged on the floor next to him. “Jealousy does not suit you,” he sniffs. McCree's hum is amused.

 

Parts of the Gibraltar base are built right into the rock, the outer walls shielded by its natural buttresses. The stone is still warm from basking in the sun all day. Hanzo settles against it with a sigh, relishing the heat sinking into his tired muscles, welcome against the chill of the air. He gazes out at the horizon, where the stars disappear into the paler line above the strait, and listens to McCree pick out notes. This isn't what he'd planned to do when he left his room but it's calming all the same.

 

Calming, but curious.

 

"I didn't know you play music."

 

McCree shrugs. "Only guitar, but yeah. On occasion." He doesn't say anything more.

 

Hanzo examines him from the corner of his eye. There's a tiredness to him, a sad tilt to his mouth that Hanzo hadn't noticed from the roof. "You did not attend the karaoke," he says. "Lena was wondering where you were. She claims you have a good voice for singing."

 

"Heh, maybe. I can hold a tune. Sometimes that's all you need to get by." He throws Hanzo a glance then looks back to his fingers. “And nah, I didn't go. Wasn't feelin' it, not tonight."

 

"Is something the matter?"

 

McCree shakes his head. "Ain't nothin'." His hands fall still.

 

Hanzo busies himself with brushing lint off his hakama, debating whether he should push.

 

He would not deny that he and McCree have grown closer over the weeks, though the concept of being friends with a _cowboy_ still bemuses him. Their practices in the range have become a regular occurrence, one Hanzo is glad for. The no-pressure competition breaks the monotony of life between missions. On his bad days, it gives him something to focus on beyond the snares of his own thoughts.

 

It's strange. Hanzo is... unaccustomed to friendship. He didn't expect to find it here, but Jesse McCree is a different man than most. Amiable yet far from naïve, easy to talk to but respectful of silence. He takes Hanzo's moods in stride. But for all his frankness and his volume, all his compliments and his easy-going nature, he gives away very little of himself. A man of many words who says almost nothing.

 

Hanzo is more used to drawing up his own boundaries than he is navigating other people's. He isn't sure where the lines are between them, or whether he is allowed to cross.

 

He's saved from having to decide by McCree breaking the silence himself.

 

“Y'ain't what I expected, y'know.”

 

Hanzo frowns. “How do you mean?”

 

McCree shrugs, picking out a scale. “S'pose I assumed you'd be... colder than you are? I dunno. No offense meant.”

 

Hanzo twists his lips, wry. “Many would argue that I _am_ cold, I'm sure.”

 

“That's 'cause they don't get your sense of humor is drier than Death Valley,” McCree says with a sidelong grin. “Havin' said that, you are pretty intense. Got a glare on you that could put a scandalised grandma to shame.” He sounds far too amused by the fact. “Hell, when you first got here, when we met, you were lookin' at me like you were ready to rope me up and bring me in, dead or alive.”

 

Had he? Hanzo mostly remembers being scared and unsure and determined to hide it, having to remind himself once every hour that he would not turn tail and flee. Thinking back on those earliest days at the Watchpoint feels like recalling some strange disjointed dream.

 

“I would not have,” he replies, “for Genji's sake. Though the price on your head was rather large.”

 

A misstep. Like flipping a switch, McCree withdraws, folding in on himself like a tower of cards. He grunts low in his throat.

 

“Larger now. It's gone up again.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Mhm.” The lines on his face turn craggy as the cliffs. “Someone dragged up some old footage from the Devil-knows-where of a robbery I, ah, _interfered_ with a few years back, and it's caused a bit of a ruckus. Winston and Angela have been talkin' about takin' me off missions 'til the media tizzy dies down.” He lets his breath out through his teeth and mutters quietly, as if he's forgotten he's speaking to an audience. “Hate bein' grounded. Makes me feel useless.”

 

It catches sharp in Hanzo's chest – the startling urge to comfort, to console. An urge he hasn't indulged since Genji was still young enough to value his words. He knots his fingers together in his lap.

 

“It is no insult of your skill. They only act this way out of concern.”

 

“I know that, I know,” McCree sighs. “And they gotta consider the team first. If I messed up and got caught it'd be more than just my sorry hide that'd pay the price. Guess I've gotten too used to workin' alone. It's been weird, adjustin' to being part of something bigger again.”

 

Hanzo's gut clenches with empathy. He looks over at McCree, but the other man is scowling out at the ocean, tense jaw working like he's chewing on an imaginary cigar.

 

“It just pisses me off. They shouldn't have to worry 'bout me like that, they got enough to deal with.” McCree runs his hand through his hair. “Look, I've done some bad shit,” he confesses, “ain't gonna lie. Stuff that keeps me up at night. But you drag yourself outta that. You walk away. You spend your life tryin' to fix it, do everything you know how to try and make right for those wrongs, and then-” he sweeps his metal hand across in an aborted wave, mimicking backhanding someone across the face. “Nothin' you worked so hard for makes a lick o' difference. You end up gettin' blamed for shit that ain't even your fault. Nobody cares for the truth so long as there's a scapegoat.”

 

The fight drains out of him and he exhales heavily, sad and tired. “Makes me wonder sometimes why I goddamn bother. If I'm set for Hell anyway, what's the fucking point.”

 

Hanzo feels cold all over.

 

“I can relate.”

 

McCree casts him a sharp look, dark eyes piercing under his heavy brow.

 

Hanzo swallows and looks away. “Not to all of it, but... a life on the run, the effort to make amends, the regret, the futility... those, I understand.”

 

McCree watches him for a minute, taut as a bowstring, before the set of his shoulders loosens. “You do, huh.”

 

They are not the same. McCree has worked for most of his adult life to be a better man. By comparison, Hanzo is a child still fumbling in the dark. Even much of his own penance seems misguided with hindsight.

 

“Genji would claim it is the fact you try that matters.” The Genji of now would, anyway. The boy Hanzo once knew would have shrugged off the question. “Your own actions speak louder for you than the words and opinions of others.”

 

His clumsy attempt at reassurance earns him a half-hearted grin. “Sounds like somethin' he'd say, yeah.” McCree pulls the guitar close again and sets his fingers back on the strings. “Are the two of you gettin' along better?”

 

Hanzo stiffens. Again, like so many times before, the question rattles at the back of his mind: _How much does he know?_ Enough to see the obstacles between the brothers, evidently; enough to see the weight of history that hangs between every word they exchange. But surely he would never have invited Hanzo's friendship if he knew the whole terrible truth. If he knew what Hanzo had done.

 

“..Sorry. I guess it's none of my business.”

 

“It's fine.” He breathes; in, out. Hold, calm, release. “I... do not know. Some days I am sure of it. Others, it feels as though nothing between us has changed since...”

 

Their only observers are the stars. With McCree occupied by his instrument it's easier to open up, easier to be vulnerable after the other man's own admissions.

 

“It is slow, but I must believe we are making progress. I hope we are.”

 

McCree nods. “Slow-going's better than no-going,” he says. “He's real glad you're here, I can promise you that much.”

 

Hanzo has no words for that. Instead, he pulls out his sake and offers the bottle to his companion.

 

McCree considers it but shakes his head. “Better not. Not when I'm in this kinda mood. Thanks, though, I appreciate it.”

 

Hanzo needs the drink himself. When he's done he places the bottle down between them. It's odd, disconcerting, seeing McCree hazed over with melancholy. He should provide a distraction, but what? Conversation risks bitterness and bad memories, and the alcohol has been refused.

 

He looks down at McCree's large hands, holding the guitar almost reverently despite the knocks and scratches on its surface.

 

"Play me something."

 

McCree blinks. "Beg pardon?"

 

"You are just picking at strings. You say you can play guitar; show me."

 

The other man strokes his beard, scrutinising him. “You're not gonna take no for an answer, are you.”

 

Hanzo tilts his chin in challenge. _What do you think, cowboy?_

 

“Aw, heck, fine.” McCree reaches for the bottle. “Gonna need a swig o' courage after all.”

 

He takes a large gulp, wipes his mouth on his sleeve and drums his fingers on the guitar's wooden body, chewing his lip. His eyes flick to Hanzo and back to his hands. One corner of his mouth twitches up and he starts to play. Not the song he'd been playing when Hanzo was on the roof – this music is rhythmic and upbeat; flamenco, if Hanzo's not mistaken. It fills the air around them, washing away the bitterness of their discussion like the waves receding from the shore below. Hanzo watches from the corner of his eye as the tension drops from McCree's face.

 

He finishes with a satisfied flourish.

 

“Not bad.”

 

“Oof! Damned by faint praise,” McCree chuckles. Already his mood seems lighter. “C'mon now, don't tease me. I know I'm outta practice but I ain't that bad.”

 

“Not bad at all, truly. I enjoyed it,” Hanzo admits. He considers, decides to push his luck. “And you can sing.”

 

“Whoa, no,” McCree wags a finger at him, “no, y'ain't gonna stick me with that one, I ain't singin'.”

 

“No?” Hanzo clicks his tongue. “Disappointing.”

 

McCree's face folds into a rather foolish-looking leer. His drawl thickens into something cartoonish. “Why, you hopin' I'd serenade you, sugar?”

 

Hanzo snorts. “Why do you refuse? You are a loud man, surely you aren't ashamed.”

 

McCree fidgets, grumbling under his breath. It's hard to tell in the moonlight, but his face may be a little flushed. He downs another mouthful of sake and puts the bottle back with a grimace.

 

“All right, tell you what.” He eyes Hanzo up and down. “I will if you will.”

 

Damn. Checkmate. Hanzo barely manages to stop himself from physically recoiling. “No,” he sputters, “absolutely not.”

 

The reluctant line of McCree's mouth shifts into a grin. He leans forward, angling his body towards Hanzo. “Sure I couldn't convince you?” he wheedles, waggling his fuzzy eyebrows.

 

Ridiculous. Hanzo can't help the laugh that escapes him. When he catches McCree's eye the cowboy joins in with his low, warm rumble.

 

After a minute McCree's laughter trails off. His eyes linger on Hanzo's face.

 

“What?”

 

“Uh.” McCree points above the line of his beard. “You got a bit o' sparkle on you.”

 

Hanzo brushes off his cheek, looks back at McCree quizzically.

 

“No, not quite – uh, here...” McCree reaches up. His calloused fingertips sweep against Hanzo's skin, coming away with their own sheen of glitter. McCree pouts at it and glances back at Hanzo's face.

 

“Gone?”

 

“Nope. Just succeeded in gettin' it all on me, too. This from the party?”

 

“Genji's doing, I suspect.” Hanzo shakes his head. “It's fruitless. We're going to be finding glitter all over the base for weeks to come.”

 

“Good job there's no stealth missions comin' up on the roster, huh?”

 

Grinning, they lock eyes again. McCree blinks and looks back down at his guitar. As he starts to play Hanzo turns his warm face into the chill of the breeze.

 

After a couple of minutes McCree's strumming flows into another song. This time he opens his mouth, and starts to sing. An old song, something about searching for a sign. Both mournful and strangely uplifting. Hanzo finds himself swept up in it.

 

McCree's voice is deep and rich, smooth despite years of abusing his lungs with cigarillo smoke. Not harsh, not cold and biting like Hanzo's father, or like Hanzo himself.

 

Genji never sounded like their father or their uncles. He's always been lighter-spoken, with their mother's more lilting cadence. They used to call him 'sparrow' but in truth he was more of a songbird, always with a tune on the tip of his tongue. Even his mechanised voice with its metallic thrum has that same musical quality.

 

Hanzo has never been able to sing.

 

“Lena was right,” he murmurs, as McCree falls to quiet humming. “You have a talent.”

 

“I get it from my Ma.” McCree shrugs a shoulder and smiles, wistful. “It's the one thing I remember about her with any kinda clarity – her singin' to me when I couldn't sleep. She'd hold me in her arms, stroke my hair...” he trails off, blows out a breath. “Figure I must'a been... I don't know. Real young.”

 

He has never mentioned his birth family before. Gingerly, Hanzo tiptoes over the line. “You did not know your mother well?”

 

McCree makes a face. “It was the Crisis,” he says, like it explains everything. Perhaps it does. “I got shuffled through the foster system a while, 'til I fell through the tracks...” He waves his hand, dismissive. “It's all blurred together. Some of it's just blank. Did too much junk with the Deadlocks, maybe. Maybe I just blacked it out.” He tugs the guitar closer, holding it to his chest. “Guess that's why I got so thankful for Overwatch, though. I was a punk ass kid, don't get me wrong – I hated the lot of 'em at first. But... it ain't the group you belong to that matters, or the place. It's the people. Y'know?” He taps the ground. “This here's my family. That alone is worth everythin' else.”

 

He says it like it's simple.

 

_Brother. Family._ How do they find it so easy?

 

“I've told you 'bout Reyes, right?” McCree goes on, patting the guitar fondly. “He got me this. Taught me how to play. I knew a bit already, picked up some from the fellas in the gang, but Reyes was the one who took that spark and really showed me what to do with it. Had a habit of doing that, he did.” He smiles lopsided. “He saved me, in more ways than one. 'Bout every way one person _can_ save another. I thought the sun shone out his ass. Thought he could do anythin', like he was some sort of god.”

 

The nostalgia in his voice is swept up in fresh melancholy. “But by the end... well. He died like the rest of 'em, didn't he? Nothin' more than a man. Couldn't even get the honchos up top to wipe my slate clean.”

 

His fingers brush along one of the scratches on the wood, like tracing an old scar. “No point in bellyachin' about it. What's done is done.” He resettles the guitar, coaxes out a string of chords. “How about this, you know this one?”

 

Hanzo wonders at them both; at the chances of them finding themselves here, two men trying to make peace with the ghosts that prey on them. The night offers him no answers but at least he is not searching alone. He sits at the cowboy's side and listens to him sing.

 

The stars turn far above them, cold and bright.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /says i'm going to update more quickly  
> /doesn't update for 3 months  
> aha ha
> 
> the songs i imagined mccree playing are [ 'bird on the wire' ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8fT7rnRotY)  
> and [ johnny cash's cover of springsteen's 'further on up the road' ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W9wrBX6S1yM) because it's gorgeous
> 
> anyway i hope you guys had a good holiday period, whatever you were doing, and happy new year! i am so ready for 2016 to die


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